


What it is

by monsunwind



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Drama, First Kiss, Fix-It of Sorts, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hug Scene (Sherlock: The Lying Detective), M/M, What Could Have Been, so much love :)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-11
Updated: 2017-06-11
Packaged: 2018-11-12 19:56:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11168982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monsunwind/pseuds/monsunwind
Summary: That is right.It is what it is.And it can never be what it was before.Mary will never be alive again. Rosie will never have her mother again, he will never see his wife again and he and Sherlock will never be friends again. Not the way they were. Not after all that happened. After all this hurt and betrayal.*A little fix-it, dialog-heavy, fluffy story, about the one and only hug scene from TLD in series 4.With a sweet plot twist in the end ;)





	What it is

**Author's Note:**

> Finally had the time to write this down, like so many did before..  
> I loved the hugging-scene in TLD, but WHY did they have to let the screen fade to black afterwards? That's my suggestions of what could have happened afterwards, it goes a liiittle AU in the end, but who cares. That's what SHOULD have happened.
> 
> Enjoy reading it! :)

 

 _It is nonsense_  
says reason  
It is what it is  
says love  
  
It is calamity  
says calculation  
It is nothing but pain  
says fear  
It is hopeless  
says insight  
It is what it is  
says love  
  
It is ludicrous  
says pride  
It is foolish  
says caution  
It is impossible  
says experience  
It is what it is  
says love 

 

  * _Erich Fried_




 

 

 

 

 

 

“It's okay.”

 

He hears the so familiar, baritone voice close to his ear. Large hands come down on his right arm and neck, gently pulling him forward a fraction so that his forehead collides with a solid, cotton-wool clad torso.

 

“It's not okay,” he can't help but whisper through sobs, while more and more tears fall, wetting his hand that is still firmly pressed against his eyes. He is so ashamed of himself.

Nothing is okay. Nothing will ever be okay again. Not now.

He can't stop the sobbing. Can't stop the tears. Can't give in to the temptation of leaning into the embrace that is offered to him.

His head aches from all the chaos spinning through it. All the pictures that torture him days and nights. The unseeing, dead eyes of his wife, the deep red blood all over his hands and on her stomach. The almost same red on the smiling lips of the beautiful young woman in the bus. The bright blue eyes of his daughter. His perfect, innocent daughter, crying for her mother, who will never be able to hold her again.

 

The hand on his arm slowly wanders upwards now and comes to rest on his shoulder, trying to soothe him, trying do comfort him.

He feels the chin of the taller man before him carefully coming to rest on his head, hears the softly spoken reply to his words: “No. But it is what it is.”

That is right.  
It is what it is.

And it can never be what it was before.

Mary will never be alive again. Rosie will never have her mother again, he will never see his wife again and he and Sherlock will never be friends again. Not the way they were. Not after all that happened. After all this hurt and betrayal.  
  


It is what it is.

 

Totally drained by all this realisations he lets his hand sink from his eyes, leaning in a little closer and finally encircles his arms around the body before him. Giving into the temptation. He needs this now. He can't be strong any more.

A surprised gasp is heard, but the embrace is eagerly returned as he is pulled even closer to his opponent.

 

Some minutes pass before his sobbing gradually stops, but silent tears continue to fall, dampening the fabric his face is pressed against, as he inhales the familiar, manly scent that surrounds him now. The scent of home. His home from another time.

He can feel how his formerly wild beating heart gradually becomes calmer, adapting the regular beats of the heart of the man he is so, so close to now.

Sherlock.

Who saved him by giving him the battlefield back and showing him a new purpose in life. Who faked his death – jumped off a roof, to keep John and his friends save, who shot a man to keep his vow to protect him and his family, who let himself be shot by Mary and forgave her for it - just like that. Who almost died to “save” John first by drugs and then by a serial killer.

Who was in the wrong place at the wrong time, when Mary decided to give her life for him. It wasn't Sherlock's fault. It was Mary's decision.  
  
He knew it back there in the aquarium. But the shock and grief were too big, the blood of his wife still warm on his hands, clouding his senses and the temptation to put all the blame on Sherlock, to punish him for not being able to keep his vow, was just so convenient.

He had seen the deep hurt in Sherlock's eyes then, the pale face, the outstretched hand, immediately wanting to offer comfort.

But how could he accept it? He needed the anger. To distract himself from his own guilt. For cheating on Mary. For not being the perfect man she saw in him.

For never again having the chance to tell her he loved her.

He couldn't be angry at Mary, even though she left him with an infant and a broken heart. He knew she did it out of love.

 

And so he took all his grief and desperation and let it built up over the weeks until it all came out in the morgue where Sherlock was the perfect victim.

Sherlock, who himself was grieving and without trying to defend himself, took all the blame John wrongly put on him. He is so sorry now.

He grabs some of the fine satin of Sherlock's dressing gown in both hands, presses himself closer to his body and lets out a shuddering breath.

 

How can this man stand it? Being so close to John, who just a few days ago beat him to a pulp. How could he comfort him? Does he really still want to be friends?

 

They really need to talk.

 

Savouring the closeness of Sherlock's body for a few seconds more and making sure that he himself isn't on the brink of another breakdown in the next few minutes, he slowly pulls out of their embrace, feeling Sherlock losing his arms in return and a little unsure looks up into the other man's eyes.

 

He freezes when he notices the deathly pale face and the glistening of sweat on the detective's forehead.

 

“You okay?” he asks, although he's already sure of the answer.

Carefully he lays a hand on Sherlock's brow and feels the cold and clammy skin there and immediately grabs Sherlock's upper arms, when he sees his body wavering slightly.

“I think, I need to lie down for a bit.”

John nods in understanding and helps Sherlock walking the few steps to the couch, were the detective slowly lies down on his back and pulls his left arm across his eyes, shielding them from the brightness of the room.

John, who interprets the gesture correctly, goes and closes the curtains, to dim the light.

 

“Do you feel like being sick?”

 

He receives a little shake of the head for an answer.

 

“Does something hurt?”

 

Another head-shake, followed by a low groan.

Being in doctor-mode now, he gingerly reaches for Sherlock's wrist and takes his pulse. A little erratic.

 

“When was the last time you ate something?”

 

“Had breakfast with Mrs Hudson this morning,” Sherlock answers quietly, not lifting his arm from his face. John nods pleased. At least he'd eaten today.

 

“You should drink something, your kidneys are still not at the top of their game , after all the bad stuff you put through them. I'll just be in the kitchen and prepare some tea. You think you can stay here on your own for a few minutes?” The doctor waits for another nod of the curly head, then went and made the promised tea.

 

He feels a little shaky himself. His breakdown just now had really drained him. Until now he hadn't cried for his wife. Not when she died, not at her funeral, not when he held his half-orphaned babygirl in his arms, after returning home from the aquarium.

But just now it was too much. He couldn't stand the guilt and the grief any longer and finally his body has found a way to relieve some of the pressure that had been building up inside him for weeks now.

 

While waiting for the kettle to boil, he rubs his face with his hands, feeling tired all of sudden. He exhales deeply, then takes a look around the corner at Sherlock, who still hasn't moved from his position on the couch.

He can't leave him a little earlier now, as planned. He will stay until Molly arrives to take over.

 

With experienced movements he finishes preparing the two cups of tea and slowly carries them over into the living room.

Hearing John come in, Sherlock slowly lifts his arm from his face and warily brings himself into a sitting position, his legs bent and one arm slung around his knees, making place for John.

 

John slowly sits down beside him and hands Sherlock his tea. The detective grabs the cup with his long fingers and utters a small thanks. He takes a cautious sip of the hot beverage, when his hand begins to shake violently. Immediately he puts the cup on the table before him and balls his hands into fists, while sighing frustrated and letting his head sink to his knees.

“Those bloody cravings,” he mutters, barely audible with his face pressed against his bent legs.

 

“It's okay. Are they still that strong?” John asks concerned, to what he only hears a muffled “Mh.”

 

The doctor takes a sip of his tea, then places his cup on the table, too.

Sherlock really still seems to suffer from the cravings for the strong drugs he took.

A little unsure of what to do next, he hesitantly reaches out his hand and slowly lays it on Sherlock's back - but almost instantly pulls it back, as he feels the detective's whole body going rigid.  
Maybe that's too much. Maybe he he needs to back off.

However just a few seconds later Sherlock seems to melt into the touch, slowly lifting his head and letting it sink onto John's shoulder with a content sigh.

John can't hold back a relieved smile.

He slowly begins to stroke Sherlock's upper back, again savouring the feeling of the man's body, leaning limply against him – his legs bent sideways and almost touching John's thigh.

 

They are in a sort of limbo – after all these years, so familiar with each other; with their bodies, their smells, their words, their thoughts, their touches. But on the other hand, there is so much distance between them now. More than ever before. So many misunderstandings, anger, grief and so many unspoken thoughts.

 

John decides that it has to stop now. No more lies, no more withholding.

They would talk and they would bring this to an end. Whichever end this may be. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.

 

“Sherlock could you sit up a little?”

 

As if just having waited for this request, Sherlock gingerly brings his body in an upright position again, facing John.

He doesn't look that sick any more, maybe hiding it a little now.

His gaze on John is intense, expectant.

John lets his eyes wander over the battered face. The black stitches on the eyebrow, the remnants of bloody crusts on his nose and bottom lip, the greenish hue on the prominent cheekbone and the, unnatural, red discolouration around the left iris.

He looks down on his hand, the knuckles still raw from where he had hit Sherlock's skin with full force.

He can't remember much of it any more. He just remembers the anger, taking over every nerve in his body.

He remembers Sherlock's face. Blood pooling from his wounds, dripping on the floor. His eyes, his whole face, looking utterly defeated.

 

_'Somebody loves you. If I had to punch this face, I'd avoid nose and teeth, too.'_

 

A bitter smile comes to his lips by thinking of Irene Adler's words. She was right. Back then he could have never hit Sherlock the way he did now. He admired him. He trusted him. But then all the bad stuff happened and now here they are.

 

 

“I am sorry.” he looks deep into Sherlock's eyes, “For what I did to you. Not only for hitting you, that was - just the tip of the iceberg, I think. But for being so aggressive, so angry with you all the time-”

 

“John, you don't have to apologize,” Sherlock cuts in, but is silenced by John's strict head-shake, “Just... listen... I mean... I think it started when you... went away for two years. I know you wanted to protect me. But it still hurt like hell and when you came back, I had this new life with … Mary... and I thought it would be good and I could start again, and then you were there with the adventures, the danger and your amazing way of... being you and I suddenly had two lives, and I didn't know which one I wanted.

And somehow for a little while it really worked out with both, because you tried so hard, and Mary tried and I was so happy to have you.

 

And then we learned about Mary's past and she shot you, and suddenly I was so angry at her, for months I didn't know what to do, if I wanted her back, but there was Rosie... and the love for Mary was still there somehow, you know? So I tried. I wanted to live a normal life, without an assassin wife and a normal job, and a baby and I cut you out and I got so bored and frustrated and I suddenly wanted out. But I couldn't and on the other hand I didn't want to and the frustration grew and then came the envy... because you and Mary you got along so well and Mary didn't have to pretend any more and she was so much smarter than me and somehow I felt like the third wheel suddenly, you know?”

 

“I would have never-” Sherlock interfered alarmed, eyes wide in shock, “I know! I know you would never have had a relationship with her in a romantic way,” John reassures him, “but nevertheless I felt cut out. Like you didn't need me any more, and I grew so angry with you, and you didn't do anything wrong. You were just how you always were, this frustratingly, brilliant show-off, and I was just so pissed off with everything.” He paused, looking down on his hands, then up into Sherlock's face again. Tears slowly started to sting in the corners of his eyes.

“You know I'm not a good man. I cheated on my wife, be it just texting or the fantasies of sneaking out in the middle of the night to meet up with another woman - I was dishonest.

And I blamed my best friend, who was always loyal and always so good to me, for killing my wife, just to give some of the guilt away, to mask the fact that I somehow was... relieved that she was gone, despite that I loved her.”  
John couldn't hold back the tears any more, that now freely ran down his face.

Sherlock's eyes began to shine, too.

 

“You couldn't have done anything. She chose to jump in front of the bullet, it was her decision. And even though I knew this, I wanted to hate you, for the vow you broke and all this bullshit. And I drank. I was drunk when I tended to Rosie and I had – still have – hallucinations of Mary, and I'm so fucked up. I wanted you to hurt. I ignored the Hippocratic Oath, ignored the bad shape you were in and to top it all off, I almost killed you.”

 

“You would've never-”

 

“YOU DON'T KNOW THAT!” John shouted in frustration for Sherlock's interruption, “Maybe I would have. If there hadn't been those people holding me back, I don't know what I would have done, I'm dangerous! You should leave me, I'm not good for you any more -”

Suddenly John feels himself pulled into a tight embrace, his tearstained face again pressed against the torso of his best friend.

 

“No-” he tries to protest. To bring some distance between them. Sherlock has to see, has to understand. But it seems that said man has other plans.

“Stop it now! Don't say things like his.”

The doctor's heart clenches painfully when he hears these words coming from his friend.

How does he deserve this undivided trust, Sherlock puts into him?

 

Really exhausted but so, so relieved to finally having let all his demons out into the open, he allows his head to relax against the solid form of his friend. Just a few seconds, then he will part from him. Giving him the space he needed to think about everything.

 

He hears Sherlock's deep voice beginning to murmur against his ear and can't help but to keep perfectly still and listen.

“When I was a little boy, I didn't have friends. Yes, I had a great, understanding family, but no child my age that even tried to befriend with me. It's not that _I_ hadn't tried. But instead of making friends, I soon found out what it is to have enemies. Children can be so cruel you know? When they find out that you don't fit, that you are smarter, having other interests. And so very soon I put on this armour of not caring. Distancing myself from socializing and instead developing the passion for nature, insects, experiments – reading all that I could find about these topics.

I lost my childhood dog when I was eleven. I couldn't cope with that loss. It was the last thing I really cared about and the trauma was very heavy. My brother taught me then that caring is not an advantage. And I understood and lived through boarding school and uni according to this motto, never letting someone see behind my facade.

There were some who tried. Professors, I did look up to, some goodhearted people and I even had a boyfriend at some time in uni, but even that came to an end rather brutally at some point. I was avoided and my skills were exploited – soon I became the freak. And that was one of the harmless nicknames they got for me.”

 

John can feel a shiver running down Sherlock's spine, it must be very hard recalling those memories. He puts his hand on the detective's back and slowly starts drawing soothing circles there.

 

“And then came the drugs. I was so young and naïve - only sixteen, seventeen - when I first took some of the more harmless ones. But it felt great. It let me forget that I was an outcast, that I didn't have a place were I belonged. I felt so much smarter than anyone. Soon there was the cocaine, the heroin and that was were my life got out of control. I somehow managed to finish my degree at uni, but I already was that addicted to those substances, that I didn't care any more.

I broke with everyone, living on the streets... doing things I'm not proud of , just to get my next fix, the next high, that made me forget how worthless I was. I didn't care any more, just waited for it all to end. Thinking about ending it myself at some point.”

 

Tears come to John's eyes. He shuts them tightly and presses his body more closely against the man before him. Feeling the wildly beating heart of his opponent fluttering against his own ribcage.

 

“By accident I met Lestrade, investigating a smaller case in the area I was living rough. I managed to solve the case within minutes, leaving Lestrade and all the other Yarders stunned.

It felt good. For the first time in my life my skills, the deductions, that always came so naturally to me, were appreciated. With Mycroft's help I got clean. You know it was years of abuse, my body _needed_ the high to function and it really, really hurt. I fell out with my brother at some point... and it wasn't his fault alone.  
I became a consulting detective. The best decision of my life. Somehow, for the first time, everything had a meaning. Handling the cravings rather good, only occasionally falling back, working for Scotland Yard, helping people, being appreciated for what I do. It was bearable to be alone. Life was okay.”

 

Slowly Sherlock loses their embrace, sitting more upright with his face very close to John's and gives his friend a bright smile.

 

“And then you came. And somehow you were so interesting to me. It was fascinating. You didn't shy away from my personality, you just fitted in, fitted into everything about my life so perfectly, needing the adrenaline of the cases as much as I do. It felt so good to have someone who likes you for just the way you are and tolerates your bad habits without expecting something from you. You showed me how to deal with people, what behaviour was good and what wasn't, how to make friends. You made the craving for drugs go away. My life was perfect, the adventures we had, the quiet evenings in the flat.”

 

Sherlock's eyes become more serious now.

 

“I'm sorry I had to put all that to an end and faked my death.

I know it broke your heart and I can never again get the trust back you had in me before all this... but I don't regret doing it. That way I knew you were safe at home, not on the run for two years, always in danger of getting killed. The thought of you waiting for me in London was the only thing that helped my through it all.

Seeing you again afterwards, was just so good and your anger against me was justified.

I must confess I was a little envious of Mary. I didn't expect her to be there. I selfishly thought we could just go back to the way it was before. But I was grateful that you had her through the time and she was able to handle me, so it was okay.

 

I'm sorry you felt like a third wheel with the three of us. Maybe I was just a little to eager to make this all work. I liked Mary. She was just like me. She was a good friend.

 

Nevertheless... it wasn't easy, letting you go; starting this new chapter, with the marriage and the baby - ending our era. But after all that I put you through, it was not my turn to complain. And I wanted – still want – you to be as happy as possible. Throughout all these years you have been the most important person in my life. And I still hope that I am important to you, too.”

 

“You are,” John whispers, grabbing Sherlock's slightly trembling hand with his own.

 

“Don't blame yourself so much for all that went wrong through all these years. That's life. Bad things happen, bad decisions are made, we fight, we make up. We're only human. All of us.

It is what it is, John.”

Sherlock squeezes John's hand tightly again.

 

“There are people that can help with the anger you feel. Don't hold it all inside, until it erupts. Talk to me, talk to your psychiatrist, to Greg or Molly. Were all here, we all want to help you. Do it for yourself, and for Rosie.

And don't blame yourself for hurting me any more. You grieved and all the anger had to come out sometime. I forgive you and I think we're even now with hurting each other over the past years.”

 

John, already close to tears, nods slightly and falls back into the other man's arms, holding him tight, while whispering, “I'm sorry for all that you went through in your life. I think I never thanked you for all you did for me. I was taking you for granted, but that will stop now. I'm proud to be your friend.”

 

“Best friend,” Sherlock corrects him, pressing a kiss to John's greyish hair.

 

“The very best,” John concedes and raises his head a fraction, so that their faces are just centimetres away from each other.

He looks deep into those familiar, blue-grey eyes, searching for the confirmation that the other one was okay with the next step he wants to make, finds it and then closes his eyes, leans in and lets his lips sink against his counterpart's.

Sherlock lets out a surprised gasp and tries to pull back at first, but then gives into the temptation and grabs John's face with both of his hands, deepening the kiss.

 

It feels heavenly. Those soft, warm lips that move so perfectly against each other. Both man savouring the feeling of belonging together, of finally, finally having been brave enough to do the right thing.

They both let it go on for a little while longer until John reluctantly, but smilingly brakes their kiss and leans a little away from the detective.

 

He takes in the swollen, beautiful lips and the passionate, shining eyes before him, when suddenly laughter erupts from deep within his chest.

It seems to him like a weight, that has been dragging him down for years, is now finally lifted from his shoulders. He feels, really truly happy.

 

Sherlock watches his friend, a little startled by his unexpected reaction, but then joins into the laughing, while putting a hand on the other man's shoulder.

 

“Oh Christ... we are insane,” John manages to shout out between giggles.

 

Sherlock looks at him in mocked bewilderment, “That just occurred to you now?”

 

They continue their laughing, leaning their foreheads against each other and start to give each other little, chaste kisses, while slowly coming down from their high.

After a while John puts his forefinger on his friend's lips and leans against the backrest of the sofa and closes his eyes. Needing a break.

Sherlock mimics his movements so that their bodies are side by side now, their shoulders pressed tightly together.

 

“That was... good,” John announces a few minutes later and lets his head fall against Sherlock's shoulder. He feels the detective nod in confirmation.

They sit there in companionable silence and let their hearts finally slow down. By hearing a snivel coming from Sherlock all of sudden, John looks up in surprise and sees a little string of tears slowly making their way down the prominent cheekbone.

“Sorry, it's just a little much,” the detective immediately explained.

 

“You okay?” John wants to now.

 

“Yes, very much so.”

 

John exhales deeply in relief and lifts his arm to let it wander around Sherlock's neck and rests it against his shoulder, while pulling the younger man closer.

 

“We need to talk about this. But I think not today, I feel like I can't put together one coherent sentence after all this confessing we did today.”

He gets a weak laugh and nod in reply and then suddenly the weight of Sherlock's head comes down on John's, as he seems to have lost the battle with sleep.

After all the detective is still recovering. His body must have been crying for the rest it now gets.

John smiles and leans against his friend's head, stabilizing it, while relishing the piece and quite and the warm body that is leaned against him.

 

Suddenly he feels a little peck on his cheek and when he looks surprised to his other side, he sees Mary, sitting on the armrest of the sofa beside him.

 

“I'm proud of you, John.”

 

She fixes him with a intense look in her big, green eyes, swimming with tears.

 

“Be happy, okay?”

 

He nods, almost starting to cry himself, “I will.”

 

Mary gives him a heartfelt smile, a tear escaping her eye, when all of sudden the image of her becomes translucent and slowly fades away.

“Goodbye, love,” is the last thing he hears her familiar voice whisper and right there he knew he won't see her again. Not in this world.

The familiar feeling of grief slowly rises inside him. But it not overwhelms him, like it did all those times before. He thinks about his daughter, he loves with all his heart. He has so much to look forward to, watching her grow up, become a girl, a young woman, falling in love, becoming a mother herself.

 

And he has this beautiful, strange man beside him. He leans closer against the detective and closes his eyes, feeling a bit sleepy now, too.

 

They would find out what they both want in the future. If they could have a romantic relationship. How that would work out, with Rosie and the detective work and everything. It certainly will not be perfect. But they will figure everything out.

One step at a time. Like they always do, together – the detective and his blogger.

 

 

 

 

_*_

_It is what it is  
says love _

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I always think about this little poem, when I see this scene, it fits so perfectly. Hope you had fun reading this.  
> There will be a small second part soon :)  
> Let me know if you liked it!  
> monsunwind


End file.
